


Sleep now in the fire

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drug Use, GHB - Freeform, Gen, Mission Fic, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 22:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21126584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: She swipes a makeup wipe over her face and another in her armpits in a quick attempt to freshen up, then Nat stumbles to the toilet. She puts up the lid and braces one hand against the wall as she shoves the other into her mouth, flattening all five fingers against her tongue until her gag reflex triggers. The taste of artificial cucumber washes down from the top as fruity alcohol and bile feed up from the bottom. She vomits hard a few times, and then suddenly she’s empty, gagging painfully and bringing up nothing.That’s what you wanted, though, isn’t it? Nat reminds herself. The drug is already well into her system. All she needed to do was avoid a potential mess later.Nat spits until her mouth feels clean, then brushes her teeth until her gums bleed. She can barely see around the glitter overtaking her vision, but the outline of her face and hair still show up in the mirror. Nat imagines she looks pale and zombie-esque. She wonders if every girl who’s roofied does. She wonders if that does anything to make them worth fucking.





	Sleep now in the fire

**Author's Note:**

> Contribution for Whumptober 2019 Day 21: Laced Drink
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

_I am the nina, the pinta, the santa maria_

_the noose and the rapist, the fields overseer_

_the agents of orange_

_the priests of hiroshima_

_the cost of my desire_

_sleep now in the fire_

_____

Nat hooks the heels of her stilettos on the low rung of the bar stool and swirls the ice cubes at the bottom of her drink. It’s laced, and she knows it, but she still lifts it to her perfectly red painted lips and gulps it practically dry.

Her target is sitting two tables diagonally behind her to the left, enjoying dinner with his wife. Well, one of them. The secret one he keeps squirreled away here in Milan.

That alone makes him disgusting and worth taking out, Nat thinks, but that’s not what was on the orders she signed this morning, He’s some kind of sleazy politician fucking things up with the UN or something or other. Nat can’t quite remember, as her mind drifts pleasantly into the soft haze of GHB.

Nat’s thigh holster itches beneath her dress. She wants to wiggle in her seat and scratch at it, but she knows better than to move. She also wants to pull out her weapon and shoot the fat, bald fucker and complete the mission before she’s too high to see straight, but she knows better than that, too. Way too many witnesses. Maybe if she catches his eye and gives her best escort’s impersonation… But no, that would take too long. She’ll be too far gone.

Nat will have to catch up with him in the morning, once she’s surpassed the hangover. She can do it. And the high will be worth it. Hell, the sleep will be worth it. So what if she takes a little longer than Fury wants? She has a room booked in this fancy hotel. Why not put it to use?

Nat takes one more sip of her ice cubes, crunching several of them between her teeth, and hops down from her seat at the bar. She slides a hundred dollar bill under her napkin and heads for the elevators, biting the inside of her cheek to force herself to focus. Heel-toe, heel-toe, Nat thinks. Ok, you can do it. The edges of her visual field sparkle slightly with distorted gold and silver starlight. She tries not to look at it, lest she fall down before she reaches her destination.

Luckily Nat has an elevator to herself, so she slips off her shoes. She holds them with two fingers and dangles them over her shoulder like a drunken bridesmaid and leans one hip against the metal wall until she reaches her floor. Nat finds herself beaming uncontrollably as she weaves down the hallway to her room.

The cell phone she left on the bed is ringing as she opens the door, and out of accidental instinct, Nat answers it.

“Hello?” She says, clearing her throat to cover the slur.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Fury’s voice asks angrily. “Your target is currently on a balcony, enjoying a cigarette, alone. Where the fuck are you?”

“Upstairs,” Nat replies, trying to give as little information as possible. “I’ll catch him tomorrow.”

“You realize he could be anywhere by then, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but his wife’s with him tonight, it’d be suspicious to be seen with me—“ Nat covers her mouth to stifle a hiccup.

“Are you drunk?” Fury asks.

“No.” It’s the truth. She only had the one drink.

Fury sighs. “I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Romanov. Don’t fuck this up.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Nat replies. She hangs up and throws the phone back onto the plush duvet cover. She sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Ok,” she murmurs. “Ok…”

Nat knows she has minutes left before the high hits her hard. She wants to lie back and let it wash over her, but she knows there’s business to be done first. She forces herself back to her feet and wobbles into the bathroom, shedding her dress into a puddle on the floor as she goes.

She swipes a makeup wipe over her face and another in her armpits in a quick attempt to freshen up, then Nat stumbles to the toilet. She puts up the lid and braces one hand against the wall as she shoves the other into her mouth, flattening all five fingers against her tongue until her gag reflex triggers. The taste of artificial cucumber washes down from the top as fruity alcohol and bile feed up from the bottom. She vomits hard a few times, and then suddenly she’s empty, gagging painfully and bringing up nothing.

That’s what you wanted, though, isn’t it? Nat reminds herself. The drug is already well into her system. All she needed to do was avoid a potential mess later.

Nat spits until her mouth feels clean, then brushes her teeth until her gums bleed. She can barely see around the glitter overtaking her vision, but the outline of her face and hair still show up in the mirror. Nat imagines she looks pale and zombie-esque. She wonders if every girl who’s roofied does. She wonders if that does anything to make them worth fucking.

A little chill runs down her spine as she again remembers the crimes of her target, both in the boardroom and the bedroom. The stars she sees turn shades of pink as she leaves the bathroom, and they’re a deep brick red by the time she’s turning down the duvet and sheets.

Nat slips into bed and pulls the covers up to her chin. She closes her eyes. Imprinted on the backs of her eyelids is a gun, a neat little compact 22, clutched in a hand with a neat French manicure. A long, skinny index finger pulls the trigger, and a bullet flies out in slow motion. It hits a bald man in the side of the head, making ripples in his skin before entering his skull and blowing out the other side with a spray of blood and brains.

Nat smiles to herself. She knows she’s in for a good trip.


End file.
